By Lieut. L. Gibbon U. S. N.
Lith. of P.S. Duval & Co. Phil.
MATRIZ DE SAN ANTONIO-HUANCAVELICA, Peru.
Dog-killers were rushing through the streets with short clubs, and as a wounded dog came running for protection among our baggage mules, the arriero's fat wife clung to her own pet dog until the killers were out of sight. The women generally accompany the arrieros some distance on the road, carrying provisions, which are eaten and drank on the road side just before parting. Ascending a rough, rocky road, over deeply washed ravines, we gain the smooth grass capped mountains. Between peaks of perpendicular strata, flocks of llama are pasturing. Yonder is a lake of clear snow-water, and there stands five beautiful vicuña, looking intently at us. What pretty animals, and how wild they look. They come here to pasture with their kinsfolk, the llamas. "Richards ride round the mountain; José go with the baggage steadily along the road, while I take up this ravine, and try a shot." We all start. The male gives a whistle, which sounds among the hills like the cry of a wild turkey; the four females are off. He stands still; as I near him, he calls louder, and long before I get within ball range, he is away over the mountain brow. The sailor-boy Richards will never give up the chase; he has run his mule out of breath, and now he takes after them on foot.
The vicuña is smaller and a much more neatly-formed animal than the llama, with a coat of fine curly wool; its color resembles that of the smaller deer. In the distribution of animals, as well as I can judge, the vicuña naturally seeks an atmosphere just below the llama. It is very swift and difficult to capture. The Indians take them by driving them into pens. Now and then a young one may be found tamed, and kept as a pet among the children; they are never used as beasts of burden. Fine cloths and valuable hats are manufactured from the vicuña. A skin sells in the market for fifty cents, and the meat is better than that of the llama, though José expresses rather a disgust at the idea of eating llama meat.
Our course is to the eastward. The snow-capped mountains are in sight to the west. Temperature of a spring 48°; air, 44°. Lightning flashes all around us; as the wind whirls from northeast to southwest, rain and snow-flakes become hail, half the size of peas. Thunder roars and echoes through the mountains; the mules hang their heads, and travel slowly; the thinly-clad aboriginal walks shivering as he drives the train ahead; the dark, cumulus cloud seems to wrap itself around us.
The first house we met was Molina post; the men passed the night with their mules in a storm, which beat against our tent all night. The postman, a Spanish Creole, invited us into his house; I saw his wife, two children, one Indian servant, and five dogs, seated around a fire made of dung, over which the woman was cooking mutton. Their bed was of barley straw, and a miserable old donkey was peeping in the door at it; so I had the tent pitched. At 7 in the morning the thermometer was 37° Fahr. This is a barren country, and seems to be inhabited by the wilder animals. We chased a fox among the rocks, and shot two viscachas, which resemble the rabbit in size, color, and head, but the feet and tail are like those of the opossum. The people are very fond of them. The arriero smiled when he saw his supper. Richards cut one of them open to bottle its young, but we had misjudged its appearance. An Indian boy said if the mules ate any of the hair of this animal it would cause instant death. We had no extra mules to prove the assertion. The fur is very fine and valuable; they are running in and out of holes in the ground or the clefts of rocks, to nibble the mountain grass. The mountains are more rolling, and covered with a thick coat of pasture; flocks of sheep speckle the mountains—black and white—cleanly washed by the rains. They seek the atmosphere next below the vicuña, while the good-natured shepherdess follows with a womanly regard for the wishes of those she loves.
Another storm is coming; we hurry on, and arrive at the next post in the small Indian town of Pancara. The postman told José that the Alcalde had come to pay us a visit. A respectable old Indian, with a silver-headed cane, who could not speak Spanish, appeared, so José was my interpreter in Quichua. "How many people live in this town, Señor Alcalde?" Alcalde, (eating parched corn from his waistcoat pocket,) "Don't know." "Have you plenty to live upon in this part of the country?" Alcalde, (with the most laughably contented air,) "Roast corn and few potatoes. The people are going away; will soon be left by myself." Alcalde—"Going to Cuzco?" José—"Yes; and as we have a long travel, we have to feed our mules well. Will you order us barley?" Alcalde—"I will go now and fetch it."
The town is falling to decay; many houses deserted, and their roofs have tumbled in. Climate cold and unpleasant. Except our kind friend, the Alcalde, the people look wretched.
The vegetable productions of this department are few, and can only be raised in the deep valleys, where the dense atmosphere interrupts the parching rays of the sun, and they are protected from the cold mountain blasts of the night. No department in Peru is more broken and barren than this, with a greater variety of climate. In our sight are peaks of eternal snow, which run up to sharp points of pure white, standing in rows; the humble Indian, cultivating his patch of green lucerne in the valley, far below.